Don't Break Me Down
by Paper pens and ink
Summary: Before going back to Derry to finally defeat Pennywise and get his memories back, Richie's life followed him like a burden. Sometimes fame and fortune aren't all it takes to be happy.


_— __Set before the start of It Ch.2. Mood inspired by Lana Del Rey's "Ride" —_

The scotch burned on its way down. Richie didn't seem to notice though, his throat was basically always on fire. It made him feel something at least, even if it was just for a second. Sometimes he stared at himself in the mirror when he felt like this. Something about the overwhelming numbness gave him a flare for the dramatics, that's probably why he made it so big as a stand-up comedian.

In theory, he had it all ; his tour was practically sold out everywhere, the cash was flowing and so was the booze. Not to mention the girls. Something about fame and riches just seemed to get them all hot and heavy. He had a casual fling here and there but he was always either too high or too drunk for them to mean anything. It's not like he didn't try though, he had a somewhat steady girlfriend for a while but that ended like everything else did. Guess she just didn't do it for him, and that probably went both ways since she was pretty vocal about how miserable he made her. Something about how he never made the time or any effort to make her feel like anything more than a chick he'd picked up at a bar. And she was right, that's the worst part. Their relationship seemed to only be physical, although the sex really wasn't that great, and Richie never really cared that she had left. He figured she would, much like everyone else. Heck, if he could, he'd probably run away from himself too. But here he was, stuck with himself, washing down yet another scotch after a big show.

Usually, right around this time, he'd go home with the first chick with a big rack he'd spot in the front row, but not tonight. He wasn't up for it. In fact, he wasn't up for anything lately. If he wasn't performing, he was home, smoking, while binging the latest season of whatever the hell was on TV. That or he was at a nearby bar making his way through a bottomless beer pitcher. His manager said he'd lost his "lust for life" but really, he knew he never had any. He got into the comedy game as a way to express himself freely and make some cash. And something about making people laugh made him feel a sort of unbearable nostalgia he couldn't quite put his finger on. But he never got that much pleasure out of it, he just wasn't cut out to be famous. He didn't have the right mindset ; it was like the wires in his brain were disconnected or something. He just couldn't be happy. His mood always plateaued at "okay" and quite frankly, seeing people around him with big smiles and heart eyes made him sick to his stomach.

He watched the people around him. Some were flirting, others were sipping their drink in silence, expecting someone to walk right over to them and start a conversation. People were so pathetic... No matter what they did, Richie hated them. They all seemed to live in a made up world where hope and romance reigned. It made people like him feel like shit. They were probably wasting their last pennies on some fruity cocktails before going back to their cold, lonely appartements and get ready for their next work day at some shitty office job. And yet, they somehow managed to seem happier than him, and that's what stung the most.

He felt a delicate, almost seductive tap on his shoulder. As he turned to face the source, his eyes met a woman in a rather low-cut tube top.

"Aren't you that Tozier guy? I think I saw a poster up somewhere". She flashed her painfully white teeth at him.

"I think you're thinking of someone else," he answers harshly, not in the mood to deal with this sort of thing. His reaction made the woman snarl and turn back to the black hole she'd come from, much to Richie's content.

"What's wrong with me?" He thought to himself as he took another swig at the drink in front of him. "That chick was mad hot, any dude would be more then happy to get it on with her. Get it together man". But his pep talk was the same as always, and in vain. He propped himself off of the barstool he'd been hoarding for the past couple hours and started fumbling around his pockets for his keys. He was way over the drinking limit but, everyday, he got more and more careless. Speed limits don't really matter if your life's worthless. Actually, he wouldn't mind barrelling down a cliff as his car burst into flames. An over the top death for an anticlimactic life. The contrast would have been sublime. He could practically see the headlines in his mind: "Renowned Comedian Richie Tozier Dead in Drunk Driving Accident". He laughed at the thought. But it wouldn't really be much of an accident ; it'd be a fortunate, unfortunate turn of events. God his mind took him to dark places lately. It was the third time today that he though of a fatal not so accidental accident happening to him. Something about the thought comforted him, it was like a warm, heavy blanket wrapped around his cold and stiff body.

He got home safe, like he always does, but he did drive rather recklessly. His apartment was small, which was odd considering the small fortune in his bank account. It was almost like he didn't believe he deserved more, not him. He sat his keys down where he always does and made a bee-line for the dark room that was his bathroom. Mechanically, he turned the shower on and stripped himself of the sweat and booze soaked clothing he had on his back. He winced a little as the rather boiling hot water hit his torso but he liked the tingling sensation on his skin. It was one of those few things that made him feel even a little alive.

He didn't even bother washing his hair. He just let the water trickle down his tense body as he leaned on the cool ceramic wall. He let out long, exasperated breaths as he closed the knobs and stepped out. He learned over the sink and wiped the fogged up mirror to reveal a tired face covered in short, coarse hairs. He couldn't make much out of it considering how horrible his vision without his glasses is, but even then he could tell the dark circles around his eyes made him look like a decomposing corpse.

Leaving his clothes on the floor where he left them, he slowly made his way to his bedroom. The bedsheets were still undone from that morning and he slipped in without even considering brushing his teeth or putting some boxers on. He just needed to lay down. When he did, he stared at that spot on the ceiling he's been looking at for months now until he slipped into a deep, pressing sleep that consumed him entirely.

Mornings were always a bitch- or rather afternoons. Whenever he woke up, he felt a pressure on his chest as if someone had been sitting on it all night. His head was throbbing and his limbs felt so weak, he was certain he could snap them in half if he had even a trace of energy left. He groaned and stared back at the spot on the ceiling. He always hated himself for never having a decent night sleep. He figured that if he wasn't so tired all the time, he wouldn't be so miserable. Sleep had to be the problem, it was the only reason he could think of as to why he was so damn dead inside. With that thought, he slowly pried himself from the bed, put on some old t-shirt and the first pair of jeans he could find and walked towards the kitchen, his feet dragging on the floor as if attached to a ball and chain. His phone had been bombarded with texts and calls, as always, from his manager who wanted god knows what. The time indicated that it was a little over 2:30 pm and Richie sunk into his chair with a banana in his hand. He never really cared for them but food seemed to have lost its taste lately so it was all the same. At least he was eating today.

Flipping through the channels, he settled for a rerun of Forensic Files where a couple girls were found at sea, drowned after a sketchy boat ride from a stranger. He'd seen it before, much like everything that was on, so he didn't really pay attention to the flickering images on the screen. He stayed there, absorbed by the couch until it was time for him to make his way to his next stand-up venue. He felt no excitement about getting back on stage; he'd done the routine a million times already. He'd start off with that Masturbators Anonymous joke he had definitely not written himself, considering the fact that he had to girlfriend to even catch him in the act, and conclude it with that story about some BBQ he definitely hadn't been to either. It was a pretty standard procedure.

Still hungover, Richie gave his manager a "sorry I didn't return you texts or calls" wink and he knew he was off the hook. The house was packed and he was going on soon. Tech and various other backstage people were running around and scrambling to get everything ready and in place for his hour-long show. Watching everyone else high on adrenaline slowly let the life drain back into Richie's body but he knew it would only last as long as the show. There were only a couple minutes left until showtime.

That's when he got the call.


End file.
